


The World's Only Consulting Detective vs. the World's Most Hated Bird

by I_m_cumberbatched



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Sherlock's not very good at mobile games, flappy bird - Freeform, sort of crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:16:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_m_cumberbatched/pseuds/I_m_cumberbatched
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It can’t be that difficult, John.”</p>
<p>“Really, Sherlock?” John snapped.  “You want to go there?  Fine.”  He grabbed his mobile and shoved it at Sherlock’s chest.  “Let’s see your massive intellect do better, then.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World's Only Consulting Detective vs. the World's Most Hated Bird

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [The World's Only Consulting Detective vs. the World's Most Hated Bird/咨询侦探 vs. Flappy Bird](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3245897) by [hydesakura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydesakura/pseuds/hydesakura)



> Written because of the Flappy Bird war going on between several of my friends and I. One of them just got 63. I think it's all over.....
> 
> Don't really know when this would be set in canon. Doesn't really matter. Make it post-season 3, pre-Reichenbach, I don't care. Heck, you could even make this a nice, happy AU where the Fall never happened, do whatever you want.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock (obviously) or Flappy Bird (obviously).
> 
> Warning: Frustration-induced swearing to follow.

“FUCK!”

Sherlock looked up from his laptop, mildly surprised at the level of rage in his flatmate’s – _boyfriend’s_ , he reminded himself with pleasure – voice. 

“Fucking bloody _fuck_ , you stupid piece of shit!”

Sherlock went back to his laptop after a few moments of silence, reading up on a potential case that sounded mildly promising, only to raise his eyebrows at the stream of inventive expletives spewing from their bedroom a minute later.  Sherlock sighed and shut his laptop, setting it aside on the coffee table and pushing himself to his feet.  Might as well go see what was giving John such a conniption. 

Sherlock pushed the door open to see John sitting cross-legged and half-dressed on the bed, leaning over the new iPhone Sherlock had given him for his birthday.  His eyebrows were knitted tightly together and his teeth were gritted in what appeared to be a grimace of frustration, concentration, and pure hate as he tapped manically at the screen with his index finger.

“John?”

John jumped and then gave a shout of dismay.  “ _Damn_ it, I was just about to beat my high score!”

A tingle of annoyance ran through Sherlock; he’d left his vaguely interesting case for this?  “You’re about to tear your hair out because you can’t beat a mobile game?” Sherlock scoffed.

“No,” John growled, his glare redirected from the screen of his mobile to Sherlock.  “I’m about to burn this mobile to a bloody crisp with your blowtorch, then throw it down into the street and watch it get run over 500 times before retrieving it and shoving the remaining pieces into Mrs. Hudson’s blender and then I’m going to mail whatever’s left to the fucking sadist that created this game.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but be rather impressed at this.  “If only the criminal classes shared your creativity,” he said longlingly, his eyebrows raised.  “I would never be bored.”

John dropped the mobile in front of him on the bed.  His furious mood was quickly turning into a sulk.  “Surprised the murder rate hasn’t gone up from this bloody game.”

“Seriously, John?”  He found it hard to believe that a mobile game could cause such high levels of anger and violence as to result in murder.

“I’ve been playing on and off for a few days and my highest score is eleven,” John grumbled.  “Harry texted me while I was getting ready raving about how she managed to get twenty-four.”

“ _Oh,_ so it’s a matter of _pride_ now, I see.”  Sherlock smirked.  “Can’t let your little sister get one over on you.”  John’s eyes narrowed at him.  “It can’t be _that_ difficult, John.”

“Really, Sherlock?” John snapped.  “You want to go there?  Fine.”  He grabbed his mobile and shoved it at Sherlock’s chest.  “Let’s see your massive intellect do better, then.”

Sherlock fumbled for the phone.  He rolled his eyes.  “I think I have better things to –”

“What?” John said.  “Afraid the great Sherlock Holmes, world’s only consulting detective, won’t be able to beat an idiot like me?”

Sherlock’s lips thinned.  “How do I play?” he asked, easily bypassing John’s security code.  _FLAPPY BIRD_ , the screen proclaimed.  Sherlock’s eyes were immediately assaulted with retro pixilation and bright colors.

“Just guide that idiotic bird through the pipes by tapping the screen,” John answered with a shrug, but there was a gleam in his eyes that Sherlock didn’t like the look of.

Sherlock pressed the start button and tapped the screen to start the game, as instructed, and watched as the round little bird flapped into action and immediately crashed to the ground.  Sherlock looked up at John, a crease between his eyebrows. 

John nodded at the mobile.  “You have to keep tapping to keep the bird flying.”  As Sherlock stared at him in disbelief, John pursed his lips.  “Go on, then.  Show me how it’s done.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock grumbled, but he pressed the start button again.  All he had to do was beat John’s score, and then he could go back to that not-quite-dull case.  This time he managed to keep the bird in the air until the first set of pipes appeared on the screen, which the bird promptly ran into.  Sherlock’s nostrils flared, and he started again, not giving John the satisfaction of looking back him.  He maneuvered the bird through the first two obstacles, then growled as the bird grazed the top of the next set and died.  “What is _wrong_ with this _bird_?” he snapped.  “What kind of bird dies when its head brushes against something?  He wouldn’t have even _felt_ that!”

Sherlock threw a glare at John, who seemed to be taking a sick kind of pleasure in this.  That sadistic glint was still in his eyes, accompanied by a growing smirk.

Sherlock took a deep breath and started again.  This time he made it through five before the bird plummeted to its death.  “This–”  He threw the mobile on bed with all his strength.  “I give up,” he snarled, then immediately snatched it back up.  “No, just once more. . . .” 

Start.  Tap.  Four.  Start.  Tap.  Six.  A triumphant shout. 

Sherlock sunk to the floor, grumbling, “Just have to get some kind of _rhythm_ going, that’s the trick.”

Start.  Tap.  Seven.  Start.  Tap.  Nine. 

A smile began to tease his face.

Start.  Tap.  Two.

“ _Fuck_.”

Once more.  Start.  Tap.  Four.

Just. . . .

Start.  Tap.  Seven.

Yes. . . .

Start.  Tap.  Three.

Sherlock glared up at John, who was laughing at Sherlock’s ineptitude.  “Oh, that’s nice,” Sherlock snapped.

John shrugged again.  “It makes you want to go out on a murder spree when you’re the one playing it, but it’s actually quite fun to watch someone else fail at it.”  John reached to grab for his mobile, but Sherlock pulled it to his chest.

“No!” he shouted, then cleared his throat.  “No,” he said, more calmly this time, “just . . . one more time.”

“You’re going to drive yourself mad,” John warned him.  “Playing that game nonstop really _will_ make you angry enough to kill someone.”  Sherlock just stared up at John, who sighed.  “Fine.  Suit yourself.  Just don’t kill _me_ because of it.”

* * *

 

Several hours after John had grown accustomed to the near constant groaning, grumbling, and cursing travelling out of their bedroom, Sherlock finally emerged.  John took in the sight of him, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth pinched, and his hair hopelessly ruffled, and raised his eyebrows.  Sherlock deposited John’s mobile in his lap and crumpled at his feet.

“I did it,” he mumbled.  He let his head fall back against John’s knees.  “I don’t understand . . . why.”

John turned the screen on and smiled.  _NEW BEST SCORE_ , the screen read.  _13_.

“Well done,” he said.  He slipped his fingers in Sherlock’s curls and Sherlock let out a huge sigh.  His body relaxed against John’s legs.

“Never let me play that game again,” Sherlock said.  His eyes slipped closed.  “I hate it.”

John smiled down at him fondly.  God, this man was stubborn, insisting on playing an emotionally-draining, soul-stealing game like this until he beat John’s score.  “Promise.”

He didn’t mention that while Sherlock had closed himself off in the bedroom, John had borrowed Sherlock’s mobile and achieved a score of 28.  He would have to remember to delete the game from the mobile before Sherlock saw it.


End file.
